Well, Life Really Sucks
by Rowanclaw24
Summary: I wrote a novel-length Hamilton College AU in a month. This is a trial run for my writing, to see how it goes, amiright? Feedback is always appreciated, especially now. \ (ツ) / Your classic College AU. The misadventures of the Revolutionary Set. Hamliza, maybe slowburn Lams. Rated T because life sucks. I promise the story will be better than the summary! ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ
1. Chapter 1: Alexander

Alexander Hamilton was having a bad day. No, scratch that, Alexander Hamilton was supposed to have the best day of his life, but everything went catastrophically wrong very, very quickly. Being a creature of habit and a productive member of society, he actually planned out the whole day, start to finish. He would set an early alarm, run to Starbucks for his morning coffee, and then catch a taxi to Columbia University, then proceed to get his room assigned and everything else under the sun figured out.

Long story short, that certainly didn't happen. Five-o'clock-in-the-morning Hamilton, who happened to be very different than awake-and-sane-Hamilton, decided that morning that of course, awake-and-sane Hamilton wouldn't be needing his alarms- on the most important day of his life.

After scrambling out of the house and cursing his morning self, Hamilton realized that the human race happens to love Starbucks at six in the morning more than any time of the day. And it wasn't just Starbucks- the mediocre coffee shops all around town were also crowded to the point of insanity. Hamilton aborted that mission early on and decided to just decided to get to his new home before anything else could screw itself up, like it tends to do.

So besides that, everything was going just perfectly.


	2. Chapter 2: Laurens

Today is the start over day. Nothing will ever get in my way of making this the most perfect day to ever happen to John Laurens. Ever.

Because today is the day that I go to Columbia University to get settled for my first semester. Nerve-wracking? Yes. A new start? Certainly. Today, I don't care about what's happened in the past. Today is about the future. Hopefully.

And what better way to start off the future than to be perfectly packed, perfectly ready to go and organized head to toe? Long story short, that didn't happen. Everything, and I mean EVERYTHING, went wrong in my grand plan for the big day.

As soon as I stumbled back into my truck with all of the stuff after having significant difficulty with Charlie's water heating thing, I was done as done can be at my apartment. Living with my family was worse, but I still don't like it here. It's lonely without Martha and my friends from back home. soon anyways. After it's sold, I wouldn't even have to think about it, and the bad memories that it seemed to wear like a cloak.

I wouldn't need to think about my ad anymore once I got to college. All I would need to think about would be...erm, college things. Whatever those are anyways.


	3. Chapter 3: Alexander

As I arrived at Columbia University, I kept my head down and walked straight to the little reception desk thingamajig. There would be time to look around and see sights later. For now, I needed to get into a small, enclosed space before-

 _Before what?_ Went the voice in my head.

 _Before-_ I tried to say back, mind you. But it hurt even to think about how much of a mess I was. Still am, actually.

 _Before you have a panic attack, Alex,_ it said. Dear god, why did even my own thoughts work against me? Why can't I just live a normal life like, oh, I don't know, he rest of humankind?

I tried to act casual as I stepped up to the little light blue welcome desk. I always try to act like I'm not scared out of my mind by my own thoughts. But I guess I can look a little nervous... everyone should be, this being the first day everyone's supposed to get here...

Dear God, there seem to be people of all sorts of breeds here... the nervous messes of humanity, like myself, with their hands in their pockets and their heads down. The people who try to appear confident, but seem to have no ego to back them up in that quest. But then there's the theater kids.

Don't get me wrong, I don't even know if these people are in to theater. I'll just say "theater kid" to describe the loud, extroverted people. It would be a safe assumption to think that their self-confidence is bigger than mine at any point in my life I. Even in Nevis, when I was the envy of everyone on the island for the whole "child prodigy" thing.

Now I'm surrounded by people with equal talent to me. I was considered a genius on Nevis because the competition consisted of morons.

I was born in Nevis. There, the population consists of tourists, the elites that had reign over the tourists, and the really, really poor people. I feel under that third category. My father left my mother, me, and my older brother, James, to fend for ourselves when I was three. James. When I was ten, my mother got yellow fever. Even without any modern technology or medicine whatsoever, I couldn't seem to die.

She died quickly, me in her arms, leaving James and I to fend for ourselves. We learned the twists and the turns of life on our own. And I learned soon enough that life shows you no pity. Soon enough, right when we were getting back up on our feet, when I was seventeen, a hurricane came through our island and destroyed everything and anything that anyone ever cared about.

I wrote before the hurricane- for school, sometimes when I was little, I would try and write a story just for fun. And I was good at putting my ideas on paper, but I didn't do it often. After the hurricane, I wrote everything. And I mean everything. I don't really know what made me do it- maybe I was bored, maybe there was some sort of deep philosophical meaning to my writing. I was probably bored. It started with letters to myself, because I decided that was a good idea for some reason. I remember sitting under a broken tree on the beach, writing lightly to save ink on scraps of papers I found after the storm.

And that's how I found myself. And that's how the world found me. People read my stuff, people shared my stuff. My poems, my essays, the humble musings about life. The island council decided to try and raise a fund, to get me to the mainland. I couldn't do anything more with my life in the Caribbean. The managed to plop me on a ship that happened to be heading for New York and secure a foster home and visa for me, and I was on my way

I think about my past- narrate it, maybe, just in case, someone is watching me. Telling my story, from my thoughts.

Because, of course. that makes perfect sense.


End file.
